It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. "One of us has got to die," he panted. One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it. Something about the girl had suggested an idea. He would require things of her, and she would be passionately concerned to meet his requirements. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. ‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling. ruin you. She shuddered; the room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming.
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